My Brother's Shadow
by CookandBaker
Summary: Idea for a fic in an AU in which Frerin survives the Battle of Azanulbizar instead of Thorin and finds himself increasingly burdened with the weight of leadership and by the ghostly shadows of a life cut short. Years later, Gandalf faces him the de-facto king with the possibility of the quest; he finds himself deeply conflicted but somehow determines to win Erebor or die trying.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Frerin's Fears

_Zing! _The slap echoed through the air and it did not miss its mark.

"I expect more of you," bellowed Thrain.

They were only children, Frerin a wee scrawny lad, and Thorin bigger and brawnier. He was about fifteen years of age. Thorin stood and looked straight at his father, unflinching in the face of powerful, resournding slaps to the face, whilst Frerin stared in horror and burst into tears.

He was frightened, even though Thrain never aimed his anger at him, but Thorin. More of expected of his brother, and Thorin could live up to it. Frerin always felt like Thrain talked _past _him and ignored him and his flaws, berating Thorin harshly instead for every slight misdemeanor.

_Rrrriiip _went the slight braid on Thorin's hair as Thrain pulled it out by the roots, tugging on the mithril bead that held it in place.

"You have shamed our line," growled Thrain, "And do not deserve to bear its sigil."

Thorin nodded.

"Yes, _adad._"

It was always like that, even since they were mere tots. It didn't take much to have Frerin cowering in the corner bawling silent tears, while Thorin faced their father's wrath, which was _always _and _only _directed at him.

"One day you will be king," Thorin heard from his father countless, "And that why I expect you to..."

It wasn't that Thrain was cruel or unkind. He was by nature fair and kindly, even gentle, though under enormous amounts of pressure what with having to deal with his father, manage the kingdom in his stead, and the strange tormenting dreams that plagued him at night. In them he always saw his son's fate, though he understood none of it. He saw glimpses of battles with orcs, even Thorin's death. Thrain made no sense of any of it, but he burdened with the responsibility of raising a king who would lead the people through hard times. Thrain worried, worried, and worried. Bad things, he felt, were bound to happen, what with Thror's obsession with gold.

Consequently, Frerin was ignored. He was part of the furniture and hardly deserved a second glance. That was a blessing in disguise, because Frerin could do _whatever _he liked, and Thorin had to attend long council meetings, stand in court, entertain visiting dignitaries, and so many other dull things. Soon, playing by himself and indulging in amusements lost its charm for Frerin.

Frerin was the spare.

For a long time, he hadn't even been "mother's boy" because _amad _had a baby, a darling, precious, rare gem with huge eyes and a really _persnickety _temperant.

"Thorin was a _royal _baby," their mother would sigh and remember as she awoke to feed the wailing little lassie, "Regal. Frerin was so amicable, so tiny and contented. Slept all the time... so easy to please."

Dis was a shrieking nightmare. Beautiful, more precious than mithril... but still a nightmare.

Frerin hated the sound of the baby screaming, it undid his nerves. Nights when Thorin snored on the bed beside him, Frerin tossed and turned and wished Mahal had granted him another gift, perhaps a little brother in which to share adventures, or even a friend.

"Please, maker," he whispered into his pillow, "Please let me be happy".

* * *

It was after Thrain had gone that Thorin frowned and looked at concern at Frerin, who was hiding under the table in their room, shivering. He squatted down.

"Nadadith," he said, "Come out. You know _adad _is only angry because he loves us, don't you?"

"He h-hurt you," Frerin shivered, eyes wide open.

"No he didn't," Thorin said gently, "I deserved it for failing my responsibilities. There are people who depend on me one day and I cannot let them down. Besides, how else are we to be strong dwarf warriors?"

"I'm not a warrior," Frerin mumbled, "You are."

Thorin shook his head,

"We all are. Even Dis," though the corners of his lips turned upwards at the thought of Dis being a warrior.

"She is?"

"She sure is, haven't you heard her yell?"

Frerin chuckled, the last of the tears squeezing from his eyes.

"Come here," Thorin said, and pulled the tiny lad half his age onto his lap.

Frerin leaned his forehead against his brother's and sighed. Thorin's arms hugged him close and Frerin reached with his hand to caress the beginnings of a thick black beard on it.

"Your beard grows so fast," he mumbled, "When I will be your age, I don't know if I will have a single hair."

"You will," Thorin assured him, a smile forming on his face, "You are a Durin, after all."

"One of the servants said I wasn't, that," Frerin struggled to remember, "That I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. That I am not a true dwarf."

His brow furrowed in worry as he posed the question that made no sense to him.

Thorin looked instantly angry.

"You musn't let them say things about you, Frerin," he hugged his brother close, but his eyes glinted dangerously with fury, "You are only small because that was a harsh winter... I remember... and _amad _was sick."

Frerin's childish mind left off that train of thought, though it would burden Thorin's mind for days. Instead he kissed Thorin's reddened cheeks and looked worried when Thorin flinched.

"It hurts," Frerin whispered in concern.

"I am fine," Thorin insisted.

Frerin scrambled off Thorin's knees and ran to his shelf and pulled a little corked glass jar from it.

"Grandmother let me made my own salve," Frerin said eagerly, and stuck his fingers in the jar, removing a coin's worth of sweet-smelling cream. He ran back to his brother and began to massage the oil into his cheeks.

"You will make me smell like a female," Thorin growled, slightly uncomfortable.

"Shh," Frerin said insistently in a perfect imitation of their grandmother, a trained healer, "Don't move. Don't talk."

"Quickly, nadadith," Thorin hurried him, "I am wanted for weapons training."

"Will I ever have to learns a weapon, Thorin?" Frerin asked nervously after Thorin who stood and was about to leave,

"_Learn _a weapon," Thorin corrected, "Yes of course. One day. Don't worry, you'll get your turn soon enough."

Frerin wasn't afraid he wouldn't get a chance. He was terrified. A nervous rumbling of his tummy made him feel queasy at the thought of big, heavy weapons and facing a fierce weapons master. He had watched in horror as Thorin got beat up on his first week of training, and cried for hours afterwards.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I started anew with this fic, trying to explore psychology and family-feels, so do start with the brand new Chapter 1 if you're interested ;)

Chapter 2: Frerin's Shame

"I cannot protect you always! One day you will just have to stand up for yourself."

Frerin felt his eyes swell painfully with tears but he bit his lip and hung his head. All the other dwarves in the training arena were watching.

"Look at you, can't even hold your head up," scolded Thorin, "Now pick up that sword and try again."

Thorin was furious. He hated his brother being so weak and helpless and was determined to change it. Ten years of weapons training, and yet, Frerin's best tactic was still running and hiding.

The other dwarves soon discovered Frerin was an easy target for teasing, especially when Thorin wasn't around. They loved to torment him, knowing that there were no consequences. A particularly nasty female, Tria, always took pleasure in rubbing in the fact she was so much better than him, despite being extremely short.

Frerin spent most of his weapons training hiding, and, consequently, learned very little. Thorin had been shocked that when Durin's Day came, Frerin spent the whole class demonstration sitting at the sidelines, and discovered to his horror that Frerin couldn't hold a broadsword with a stance correctly, let alone shoot an arrow.

Thorin took it upon himself to teach Frerin in his spare time, and improvement was made. But Thrain soon found out and put a stop to it.

"Leave it to the weapons masters," Thrain shook his head at Thorin, "Let your brother be on his own, don't interfere."

"He was seriously neglected, _adad..._" Thorin began, but bowed his head when Thrain motioned for silence.

"You are a prince, not a teacher," Thrain reminded him, "Enough of this. I do not want to hear of any more uncalled-for sessions with Frerin."

Thorin nodded.

And so, Frerin continued to fail at weapons training. No one noticed, no one cared (except Thorin, but he wasn't allowed to do anything about it.) He was always in the shadows. Years passed, and he "graduated", but still couldn't fight to save his life, not that he needed to. Even their young cousins Dwalin and Gloin surpassed the second prince, excelling at all the things he failed in.

Frerin was ignored.

He saw Balin, Dwalin, and all their cousins promoted to positions of leadership and responsibility, treated like grown-up dwarves. But what did he do? Potter about with nothing to do, told dismissively to "go off and play".

And then, one day, the dragon came.

* * *

The shaking in the roofs told Frerin something was wrong - stone did not shake. Frerin was with their grandmother in the the healing rooms, in the quietest, most isolated corner of the mountain, deep inside the solitude of stone, and there was no way anyone could have known of the dragon.

"Something is wrong," said a healer, and glanced at Frerin, "Would you go outside and find out what? Perhaps the miners have really gone too far with the explosives."

A couple of healers rolled their eyes.

Frerin ran off obediently, and soon found himself in the thick of what must be Erebor's entire battalion of shoulders.

"Frerin!" called Balin.

Balin looked pale, and definitely unwound.

Frerin ran up to him.

Balin panted,

"Our defenses are shattering," he said desperately, "We must evacuate the mountain but will not do so until the King or Prince Thrain orders..."

"Defenses against what?"

"A dragon," gasped Balin.

Frerin's face showed disbelief. He had heard tales of dragons, but never thought them more than children's tales.

'"I saw him with my own eyes," Balin mourned, "We are lost."

"What am I to do?" Frerin choked, suddenly pale with worry.

"RUN!" came a booming order from the front hall, where the breach had begun.

Chaos erupted.

Frerin wanted to make it back to the healing rooms, but Balin caught Frerin and dragged the protesting lad away, down into the tunnels where there was a small exit. In the suffocating combination of crowds, screams, and smoke, Frerin found himself pushed out of the mountain.

"Grandmother!" he shouted, "Dis! Amad!"

Females came first- they were so few, that they had to be kept alive at all costs. Frerin knew he was useless and a negligible loss, but _Dis, _Dis could...

There she was, the pretty stout lass looking as fierce as ever despite the madness about them. And their mother. And their grandmother, who had somehow made it out alive at well.

He felt overwhelmed with relief, but also fear. They were still too near the mountain. They had to get as far away as possible.

_All that awful gold, _Frerin thought in disgust. He would miss his home, of course, but he would not miss the dank, depressing mountain with its unhealthy air. _Let the dragon have it all, I don't want to see it again._

Many feelings washed over Frerin and he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Having grown out of the habit of crying, he hardened his countenance.

The needs of the people came first, Frerin knew. He busied himself, running about and trying to make sense of the senseless situation. There was no order, turmoil. Desolation and deprivation sunk into the small group of suddenly bereaved dwarf survivors. It was a losing battle, for they were at a complete loss. He had to be there to help keep the people together, warm and feed as many as possible, tend as many wounds with what crude skill he had, and numbly follow the orders of those who had the gravity to even _think _in such dire circumstances.

Frerin wasn't a leader, he was a follower.

He wasn't made to be in the forefront, but in the background.

For many days yet their lives were as dark as the pits of Khazad Dum, and it would be years before Frerin thought he could emerge from fortress from which Frerin had shut out his ability to _feel _and to _care._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Please, grandfather, eat," begged Frerin softly.

They had found shelter, temporary shelter but shelter nonetheless. Fleeing north to the Grey Mountains, they found the settlement unprepared for them in the midst of winter, and, consequently, unwilling to shelter or be hospitable to the refugees. It had been their grandmother's idea to salvage the situation but digging out every single piece of jewelry they wore amongst themselves, and paying the Grey Mountain folk. It was a rather extravagant price, but it bought some goodwill.

"Nothing sways a dwarf more than some pretty trinkets," she snorted derisively, shrewd as she always was.

Thrain, Fundin, and other dwarves nodded in agreement.

"We will earn back some coin in labour," she continued determinedly, "And then, we will make our way east."

"Moria," mumbled Thror, "We will regain our strength and make an attempt on Moria."

"Khazad-dum is out of reach," she snorted coldly in reply, "We head to Ered Luin where there is room. The Grey Mountains are overcrowded. In spring, your brother Gror will likely lend us some coin for the journey."

They didn't want charity. No dwarf would accept charity... but they could borrow what they needed.

They had fought, grandmother and grandfather. Grandmother was infinitely more practical, but she was sharp-tongued. After years of scolding Thror, she felt her husband had gotten his comeuppance and blamed the entire situation on him. Thrain was silent, but busy.

After awhile, Thror had gotten so difficult that he refused food. Even Thorin had lost patience with him, and it fell to Frerin. Frerin would sit with Thror for hours, patiently listening to his ramblings, calming his rages, and attempting to feed him.

Meanwhile, Thorin had found employment in a forge, and was earning some coin to feed their people. Many others followed his example and did the same.

* * *

_Lost. _That's what they were.

Grandmother had succumbed the dreaded fever. Within three days she was laid in stone. The worst part was that Thror seemed to register none of this.

Her last words had been bitter, angry. She hated for husband for all that he had done, and she told her son, Thrain, to lead the people onwards and "do what he must to control the old miser", as she had taken to calling him.

It was heartbreaking, for as young dwarves they had been much in love, much attached. They used to mean the world to each other, until the madness started.

It nearly killed Izhrain when the dreadful day came that she realized her place in his heart was gone forever. She had been replaced by his growing hunger for gold. Lost to her, he grew violent, his words hurtful. She came to hate the gold. Her anger grew and secluded herself from the rest of the family, ignoring Thror and hiding in parts of the mountain where she knew he would not come to look for her. Now she was dead. The life that had once been so beautiful, so blessed, was reduced to nothing.

She was buried, away from home, in a cold grave. She was not laid amongst her kin, and they scrambled together what they could to purchase a place in the common grave.

Thror grew worse and worse, becoming more and more disconnected with reality. He assaulted Frerin, once, and soon had to be restrained. But with Izhrain gone, no one dared to speak up against Thror, and when spring (and Gror's lendings) came, they equipped themselves for war.

Frerin had literally slaved to earn pennies as a mine-grader - anyone of them from Erebor could easily distinguish one kind of rock or gem or precious metal from another. Thorin and Dwalin were low-paid miners, Balin a scribe. They put together every scrap of gold they could for their people, to feed the hungry and clothe the ragged, and presented it to Thrain who defected to Thror's decision - instead of rebuilding the lives of their people, they would arm for battle.

No one would follow Thror's word, not a single dwarf would come, except Gror of the Iron Hills, of course. Without the Arkenstone and the weight of gold behind his word, Thror's influence was reduced to nothing.

Frerin's heart sank at their dismal state, but he couldn't allow himself to stop working. They would work and they would plan for battle. They would move to the entrance of Khazad Dum; most of the women and children would have to come as well, having no place to go and no guarantee of safety in the

Hopefully, hopefully they could regain a kingdom, a royal and ancient kingdom, at little cost. Hopefully losing Erebor would make sense and finally be worth it if they could have back Moria with its mithril riches. Hopefully. That was all they had, really, hope. It was a fool's hope, the imaginations of delusional, fallen king.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: I can't believe the reviews and subs for this fic. Thank you guys so much ;) I finally got around to finishing and posting this chapter. Lemme know what you think? I'm going for a canon-compliant fic with some elements of the movies.

Chapter 4

The tiny metallic rings made regular chinking sounds - it would take all winter to make enough chainmail, plated armour and weaponry for a prolonged siege on Moria. Frerin was quite good at making chainmail, he could go at it for hours with his nimble fingers. After some time, of course, his skin blistered and roughened, his neck cramped and his eyes blurred.

It was night now, and Thorin came stumbling in from the forge, smelling heavily of sweat. Frerin looked up with a smile and a greeting ready.

"I should help you," Thorin mumbled incoherently, obviously deathly tired and pale.

Frerin shook his head

"Sleep," Frerin insisted, "I have only an hour or two left to finish this one. It is no hardship. You must drink some tonic, though. I won't have you.."

"You sound like our grandmother," Thorin complained, but there was no resistance in his voice.

"Someone should take her place," Frerin replied obstinately, and his brother smiled a small, waning smile.

"There," Frerin pointed to a bottle on the shelf, a shelf that was nothing more than a board propped up on bricks.

Thorin obediently poured himself a cup and examined Frerin's work from afar.

"I thought you started this at noon," he noted, "And it is near done."

"Ah... Making maille for Groin is perhaps a penance in himself," Frerin rubbed his hands together ruefully, "He is wide as he is tall."

"Have you made one for me?" Thorin sank into the mess of cloaks and straw in the room corner that served as their shared 'bed'.

"Aye," Frerin nodded, "Though you are growing _tall._"

Thorin grunted a reply... he was already falling asleep, dead-tired and weary to the bone.

Frerin hummed a tune, dimming the lamp continuing to fit each ring into the chain. Months of practice had left him with mechanical reflexes - he did not need the light to work.

* * *

"No!" Thror hollered, struggling to escape his son's grasp, "We cannot leave now. We stand on the very threshold of Khazad-Dum!"

Thrain exchanged a worried glance with Fundin, his distant cousin and treasured friend.

"There are more orcs than expected..." Fundin began, though he knew it was useless to reason with the fallen king.

"Traitors, all of you!" Thror snapped, "Cowards! We have come so far, and none with to continue."

"We cannot!" Thrain exploded at his father in weary protestation, "We cannot expect to defeat legions of Moria orcs. We have little but our blood and our lives to spend, with almost no chance of success."

"I'm going," Thror glared daggers, bitterness seeping from his voice, "Those who are yet loyal, who have not betrayed their king, will they not stand with me?"

Fundin and Thrain looked at each other in exasperation.

"I have sent a raven for Gror, yes," Thror mumbled with rising, insane excitement, "My brother will come with his army of iron... they will vanquish the orcs and I will sit upon Durin's throne. We will..."

Thror raved to himself in the corner of the tent. Fundin shook his head regretfully at Thrain - they both knew Thror was beyond foolish, but what could either of them do?

"FRERIN!" Thrain outside the tent to his waiting son, "Give him his supper."

Then Thrain turned, continuing his whispered discussion with Fundin. They left Thror's tent and Frerin entered quietly with a tray of soup and bread. He did glance out into the night at the retreating figure of Thrain, his _father. _Few words had Thrain for either of his sons, Frerin especially. It was "Frerin do this" or "Frerin do that". Always so busy, always so tired...

Nevertheless, he had to attend to the matter at hand -

"Grandfather..." began Frerin gently and hesitantly, "I've brought supper."

Thror did not seem to hear. He merely continued gesticulating with his hands, smiling to himself and mumbling something about "mithril."

"Grandfather..." Frerin bowed his head, trying to balance the tray and approach his grandfather, making no sudden movements and proceeding slowly.

"Mmmph..." Thror said, not to him. He was staring ahead of him with a blank stare now, his lips moving with no sounds coming out.

"Bread and soup," Frerin stepped even closer to the throne-like chair, trying to smile and be cheerful, "The cook makes much of our rations... it used to be your favourite, grandfather, _soup..._"

Thror began muttering to himself again, and Frerin scooted down next to him on a chair and offered,

"I will bring in ale, after you eat..."

Suddenly, he nearly jumped out of his skin, for Thror suddenly turned to Frerin and smiled.

"Frerin!" he gazed into his grandson's eyes, and Frerin tried very hard not to flinch. Thror was not beyond striking out at anyone or anything, real or imagined.

Suddenly a well-worn hand rested on Frerin's, causing his hands to shake and the soup to stir dangerously.

"My dear Frerin," Thror continued, looking down at his hands and back at Frerin again, a soft smile creeping on his face, "Prince of Durin's Folk."

"Aye," Frerin nodded, "Aye... would you like some soup?"

Thror reached out and touched Frerin's simple cloak,

"You should be dressed in gold, in mithril, in silver," Thror swayed a little as he said in a low, haunting voice. He glanced at the food, "Not eating a poor man's rations and striding about with patches in your clothes..."

Frerin blushed. He quickly set the tray aside on a low stool and patted his grandfather's outstretched arm before taking the bowl of soup and a crudely carved steel spoon. He dished a spoonful of the overcooked barley and peas to prod into the king's mouth.

But Thror would have none of it. A tear slid down his cheek. He ignored the food, and instead began to touch Frerin's hair and clothes, and bawl. From silent cries and shaking it turned to loud wordless wails, and Frerin was paralyzed. He dropped the spoon back into the soup, and could do nothing but awkwardly attempt to embrace Thror with his free hand.

"What is the matter?" Thorin burst into the tent, and Frerin had to keep himself from dropping the bowl of soup altogether.

"S-s-soup," Frerin stammered above the noise, looking at his brother from the embarassing position of having his formerly stately grandfather bawling over his lap.

"Thorin..." Thror looked up at well, recognition and coherance crossing over his face, "Come here, my child."

Thorin, disheveled and cloaked in sweat, stepped forward slowly in concern and hope. Thror let go of Frerin, who promptly started to arrange the bowl of food back on the tray, and reached out his hand.

There was a ring on it, a ring of immeasurable value. Both princes recognized it as a symbol, a vestige of King Thror's wealth and power.

Thorin approached, knelt down and kissed Thror's outstretched hand, his lips touching the cold ring.

"My heir," Thror looked down fondly, his eyes glazing over. He started to touch Thorin's ragged raven-locks, "Look at me."

"I am here, grandfather," Thorin replied gravely.

Thror took Thorin's hands,

"Stand before me. Look at me."

"I am your servant, O King Thror, King of Durin's Folk."

Thror looked at the tent entrance, and then lowered his voice,

"They will not stand with me. They stand against me... they conspire to remove me from the throne, to steal my wealth. Don't you see, Thorin? We have come so far. Your father does not intend to invade Moria, but I will. Tomorrow, Thorin, we will slay each and every one of those filthy scum... goblins... we will claim back Moria, we will win the throne of Durin, and once again..."

"Grandfather," protested Thorin, "We cannot possibly..."

"Listen to me!" Thror began, "The wealth of mithril is far more than gold. I see it now, I truly do. Gold is of no value when compared to the vast treasures of mithril, the treasures of Khazad-Dum! I will have you installed as my son and heir instead of that traitor, do you not see?"

"No," Thorin's voice was hoarse, "I cannot do as you say. My father is right; we will reclaim our home if need be, but in _time..._"

There was silence, and Thror lowered his face.

Thorin waited, silently, tensely.

"Sha!" Thror exploded, "Leave me, both of you! Back-stabbing vipers, the filthy bastard spawn of a..."

The princes bowed and left the destitute king to his rantings. Thror did not notice their absence.

* * *

"We journey south," Thrain announced, "There are cities of men in which we can find work for the coming year."

He glanced at his father's tent where Thror had been forcibly drugged into unconsciousness.

"Nar," Thrain ordered one of the generals, "See that the king is readied for the journey ahead."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Thrain now ruled a pauper throne in the hills of Dunland. The few families left followed his word, and they respected the prince for standing up at last to a father who was... for all intents and purposes, quite insane. Still, there were nothing more than a pitiful community of dwarf stragglers who eked out their living amongst men who mocked them.

It was obvious that the dwarves were unwelcome, they presence only just tolerated. Dwarves were seen as a necessary evil. Men complained that the dwarves put them out of work, but employers like mine-owners were quite willing to employ the hardy, diminutive creatures who were willing to almost kill themselves for a few meager coins and who were incredibly skilled.

"You are in need," sneered Greim, "Poor, needy little dwarf. I could withhold your wages and watch you lot starve, but I choose not to."

Thorin did not even curse under his breath in Khuzdul, but silently continued to toil by the forge for the useless smith-owner who grew wealthy from his toil. Greim was uneducated, having inherited the smithy from his father without the skill to carry on the work.

Thorin suffered great abuse. When Greim had found out from gossip that Thorin had once been the prince of the richest kingdom in Arda, he had made great jest about it and took every opportunity to humiliate the dwarf over his reduced state.

It had been months since he had seen or heard from his family, but when Thorin stepped down from the anvil, Frerin came rushing in.

"Thorin! I've found you!"

"Nadadith, what is your business in these parts?" Thorin rushed to embrace him, the first familiar face in the long, lonely isolation of exile.

They considered each other for a moment. Frerin was disheveled from a long journey on horseback, but he was well-built. Thorin was rugged, drenched in sweat, coated with grime and obviously weary with labour.

"Are you prepared for war, brother?"

"What do you mean," Thorin gasped.

"I will tell you, but father has sent for you now. There is no time to lose. Take your wages and leave."

"Master Greim will not give me my wages except at the end of a month."

Thorin stood to lose three weeks of wages.

Frerin winced, "But war is coming. You must come."

Thorin sighed,

"I will speak to Master Greim," Thorin hurried splashed his face with the cool water, "And then we leave."

Frerin stepped outside to take care of the horse.

* * *

Frerin was waiting outside, and Thorin jumped on the pony behind him. They never have had to burden a pony with two bodies, not in their early lives. Horses were considered of great value and it had been drummed into birth to treat them with respect.

"I take it Master Greim was not pleased," Frerin got pony to start on a gallop, "There is bread in my satchel; I am not hungry."

"No, but he was dismayed to find that his business will no longer profit the way it once has. I did get my repayment," Thorin felt the coins jingle where he had hidden them under his tattered coat away from thieving eyes, "Not all of it, but still."

"The bread," Frerin reminded him.

"Only if you will take your share," Thorin pressed, "You look thin, nadadith."

"You will not believe where I work."

"Not as a tavern wench, though one can hardly joke about such things."

"No," Frerin shook his head, "It would pay well. I would do it if necessary. You see how those men stare at us, longing to feast our flesh."

"Watch your mouth! Thorin growled.

"I know more of the world, filthy though it is," Frerin said, "Men would pay a pretty price, women, even."

"Speak no more," Thorin was bristling, thinking about the times he had nearly been assaulted. He also thought of Mina, the young dwarrowdam with whom he had been close to what seemed like a lifetime ago. Was she alive? Was she safe? Had she been assaulted? The thought made him sick.

"I am a farmer," Frerin shook his head, "It's near enough to father, the wages are decent and the perks include wasted food."

"I trust you are not scrambling for swine swill."

"No. Bread, carrots, wheat," Frerin shook his head, "The farmer is kind. His wife is a menace... but he is kind."

"I hope you do not take charity."

"As if I would!"

"But tell me of the business at hand. Why the haste? Has father changed his mind?"

"Thorin, father wishes to attack Moria."

"When did this come about? Tell it all to me, _now._"

* * *

One week ago,

"Where is he?" Thrain growled in annoyance, pounding on their front door, "Nár! Open the door a once!"

"Grandfather has no doubt been taken for a walk. Nár does that occasionally." Frerin wiped the sweat off his brow as he clutched the sack of half-spoiled carrots like it was the most precious thing in the world."

There were pacing outside of the shack that served as a family residence. Thrain worked as a blacksmith, and Nár was a very young guard who looked after Thror and guarded Dis while the rest worked. He had lost his entire family.

Dis opened the door from inside and snatched the carrots from Frerin. She was peaky and thin, and spent the days watching after her grandfather, cleaning and cooking for the family. She was never left alone, as dwarf women had become targets for the most depraved of souls. She was trembling, and clung to Frerin.

"Namadith, what is it? What troubles you?"

"They are gone," wept Dis, "Grandfather took Nár and left, and all our coin. I could not stop them."

Thrain stormed past them, inside, furious that his daughter had been left alone.

"He will come back, I'm sure," Frerin assured her, "Let us have supper."

"He will not," Thrain emerged from inside, pale and shaken.

He held up Thror's ring,

"He left this. He left for Moria."

Frerin's eyes went wide as Thrain commanded, "Watch your sister and bar the door."

Thrain then stormed past them, out into the town, mostly likely to consult Fundin.

Frerin proceeded to make dinner, but it stood cold for a long time. When Fundin and Thrain returned hours later, it had been decided. They would not go after them.


End file.
